Cass, a wiry bicycle messenger, sits astride their battered red bike at the curb. Their helmet is scuffed, and a messenger bag bulges with envelopes. Faces blur and shift in the crowd, but Cass listens intently—catching the staccato, the shuffle, the stomp of each passerby. "All I need is the rhythm," Cass murmurs, tapping their fingers on the handlebars.

Maya, Cass’s dispatcher, hands over a thick manila envelope. She’s sharp-eyed, quick with a joke, and always knows which routes are trouble. "Take this to 14th and Vine, Cass. And watch out—word is, the Black Hat Crew is moving in the area." "I never see them coming, but I hear them," Cass replies, slinging the bag over their shoulder.

Cass’s world narrows to cadence and tempo. Sneakers slap, heels click, boots thud—a symphony of movement. Cass feels the city’s heartbeat through the soles of their shoes, searching for the pattern that doesn’t belong.

Cass closes their eyes for a moment, isolating the rhythm. It’s the same offbeat stomp from the police scanner tapes—the Black Hat Crew’s calling card. Cass’s pulse quickens. "They’re here," Cass whispers, gripping the handlebars tighter.

Cass maneuvers closer, feigning a delivery. The familiar criminal cadence grows louder, drowning out the ambient city noise. Cass’s breath catches as the leader passes, their footsteps unmistakable. "Package for Mr. Sato," Cass says, voice steady, hoping to draw attention and buy time.

As officers move in, Cass watches from the shadows, heart pounding with vindication. The city’s rhythm returns, and Cass pedals away, knowing they’ll always find the truth in the footsteps, not the faces.